


Gamzee/Karkat, pale, haircutting

by oncewewerezombies



Series: Homesmut fills [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Grooming, Haircuts, M/M, POV Second Person, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 18:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4930018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Any/any, pale haircuts</p><p>Anybody giving their moirail a haircut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gamzee/Karkat, pale, haircutting

This was some sort of motherfucking miracle, right here. Long fingers sink down into the thick mop of your palebro's hair, feeling the heft and coarse spikes of it tickle your palms. At the moment, you're just considering. Getting your think on, curling your pan around this, how you're gonna get all of the task motherfucking done. It's real thick. Heavy. Definitely needs a little boundarybush type-trimmery all the fuck up in here.

Brother needed to look sharp, that was a thing that was true alright. Besides, the way he kept complaining about pushing the stuff out of his miracle eyes, a bit of clip-down like a good little woolbeast shouldn't be too hard for you to do, or him to sit through, and well worth the effort on both your parts. Made your pusher all up and ache with pity though, the way he looked when he had to push it back. Still. He'd be happier with it cut, and that was important.

Besides, this was a lot of trust he was showing you here. Letting you close to his face and eyes and bared throat with the two-handled shearing device, pointed and sharp as they were, all in his business and against his soft spots. Made your skin prickle with pale.

You could hurt him, you could hurt him so bad...but you'd never...but you could.

"Can't believe I'm fucking letting you do this, you nooksniffing pile of heartbreaking failure...no one else would be crazy enough to let a fail clown like you even touch their hair, let alone think about letting them cut it...and then there's me, miserable taintchafe that I am, and I fucking volunteered for this shit..." The low grumble-growl of your diamond's considerable imprecations on your innumerable failures as a troll just make you grin a little, fangs digging into your lower lip as your fingers dig and soothe, rub gentle circles into the bases of his nubby horns. So cute. Like a cross baby mewbeast. Anyone else trying this would probably get a sickle business-end first up their nook, but he lets you do this. For once, it feels pretty damn fucking fine to be the one helping him. "Gamzee, I swear, if you don't get down to fucking business and instead keep up your lamentable and fuckingly tedious procrastination-"

"Shooosh, best friend." Your palm meets his cheek, pappap, and you thrill to the feel of his heat against your cool, the way he stumbles into silence as you calm him, your angriest and tiniest of motherfuckers. Motherfucking miracles. You know it makes Karbro mad when you say it out loud too much, so you just say it in your head instead, keep it tight in your pusher. It's a thing you know is true, true as diamonds and starlight, the way he makes you feel. The way you make him feel. Serendipity all up in this bitch. "Gonna get you all trimmed up right and proper, you feel me? Gonna do a good motherfucking job on your pan-strands."

Smoothing out his hair again with one hand, you pick up the two-handled shearing device with the other, him in your lap as you face each other on the pile. He's so small and precious, heavy on your legs and face all scowl and bark, but no real bite when it comes to you. Give a little shift with your sitting parts, make sure that nothing's going to slide unexpected and grin unrepentant as he growls at you again. Just a rough little chirr, not even words. The blades go shnick as you open and close them a little,and then you set to work.

It's not like you're not used to doing fine work with your fronds. You do your own paint, don't you? This is different though, you can feel your tongue wetting the corner of your mouth as it pokes out impudent-like, as you concentrate. Focus. Karkat keeps grumbling at you for a while, but he falls silent soon enough anyway, you could be sad about that, not hearing all those growls of disguised pale fall out his mouth, but you're thinking real hard right now.

Smooth, measure, clip. Smooth. Smooth, measure, measure, snip. Clippings of coarse black hair fall between the two of you, into the pile, on your polka-dot slumberwear leg coverings, on his faded gray jeans. Bit of a mess, but shit like that's never bothered you none. You take just a ittybit at a time, careful and close as he closes his eyes to stop them from getting irritated by specks of hair, keeping all those strands in line with each other. Didn't want to take too much. Just enough.

"Turn around now, and I'll get the back," you murmur, and your voice comes hoarse out of your throat. Close to a purr. This was meant to be a soothing thing for him, but selfish you, you're all calmed and shooshed like a purrbeast who's gotten a good scratch around the ears and chin yourself. But he must be feeling a bit the same, because he just shifts around without an argument, without the growl-whine you expect. His cheeks are red. For a moment, you rest your chin against the top of his head, between those rounded, precious nubs, one arm encircling his waist. Hold him close while your pumpbiscuit flutters with the force of the pale you feel for your miraclebro.

"Get on with it, trashbasket," he chokes out, and you can feel now, the purr in him, with your arm around the muscular solidness of his body. A little tiny bitty motor, hesitant and limping, but it's there.

"Whatever you say, sugar star," you croon back, and pick up the two-bladed hair-cutting tool again. This goes faster now, you've got the hang of it, even as he curses you out with his usual descriptive and longwinded way. He does have a way with words, sometimes you wonder what it would be like if you could get him interested in slam poetry but despite his obvious skill, he's always turned you down in a more than blistering fashion. Did almost make you feel bad the last time, so you haven't brought it up again. It's a pity, you bet he could bring the sick fire like a righteous little motherfucker.

Combing the tips of your claws through the heft of his hair, you take one last snip. Hesitate.

"What the everloving fuck is it now, nookwhiff? Spit out what's festering in your garbage heap of a thinkpan, don't try and hold it back. It's bad for you to even try thinking, you know that."

You're finished now, you are, his hair is cut back and properly inline with all its mates like it should be. But.

"...I was thinking maybe I could get the horn kit out?" you say wistful, slow, waiting for him to say no as you fluff your fingers through his hair to make sure all the loose bits fall out. He doesn't really like it when you get your busy on with his horns, much as he enjoys doing turnabout to you. Says you don't take care of them, which is true, and that it's a sad disgrace that someone gifted with horns like that lets them get all shabby and rough. Always makes you feel so comforted when he fusses over you like that, which is why you are really enjoying this. Lowblood calm tempers highblood fury, that's what you've always been told, but...this is so nice. It's just so motherfucking nice doing this for him.

"...don't make me regret this, bulgelick." A huff. You're not quick to pick up on what he means, and breath leaves you harsh as he digs a pointed elbow into your ribs. For a motherfucker who's usually rounded at the corners, he sure has some pointy-ass elbows. "Go on then, get the ass-slurping horn kit, you complete and utter failure heap. Hurry up."

Grinning, you get up and slide off the pile to fetch what you've been given permission to get. The haircut you've given him is more practical than stylish, but you think. You think you haven't done a bad job of it at all. And that's just...all sorts of motherfucking great. Especially since now your moirail is letting you rub up his horns. Take care of him a little. Your throat is too tight to let out anything more than a little strangled honk, and you settle back down in pile while he puts his head in your lap like something out of a pure diamond romance, and you get ready to get your hornshine on like you've never done before.


End file.
